


the taste of violets

by girlsarewolves



Category: Kristy (2014)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Final Girl Femslash, Implied Femslash, Post-Movie(s), horror femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 05:30:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10870116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlsarewolves/pseuds/girlsarewolves
Summary: there are some violets left on the bedside table. they chase away the bile that sticks in the back of her throat. she moves to raise the window, hesitates; looks at the barren stems left from her morning treat.it's too hot to sleep with the window closed. the scent of violets is always waiting in the morning.





	the taste of violets

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, Kristy is - imo - a very underrated and underappreciated horror movie. And I might have a little too much of a fondness for creepy femslash ships. Also I don't even know what this is? But feedback is lovely. Also the lack of capitalization is a stylistic choice.
> 
> Trigger warnings: references to/implied killing, unhealthy coping, and creepy relationships. It's all kind of vague?

* * *

she wakes to the scent of violets; there's a fresh cluster on her windowsill, freshly ripped from the ground and half-crushed.  
  
bloody fingerprints are brown smudges under the petals and dirt.  
  
(the police never found a body. you tried to believe she was dead, but Justine died that night too, and you're walking around in her body, aren't you?)  
  
she makes a mental note not to sleep with the window open anymore. the flowers are a sweet breakfast, if a little bland.  
  


* * *

  
killing comes easy these days. there's the cold, shaky apprehension followed by the dreaminess, the sensation of switching to autopilot, to survival instinct - and then the nausea hits her as the blood hits the air.  
  
(you never vomit. you don't cry anymore, you're not Justine. you hate the cloyingly sweet scent of blood but even worse is the metallic tang whenever it gets in your mouth. like sucking on pennies. you never vomit though.)  
  
there are some violets left on the bedside table. they chase away the bile that sticks in the back of her throat. she moves to raise the window, hesitates; looks at the barren stems left from her morning treat.  
  
it's too hot to sleep with the window closed. the scent of violets is always waiting in the morning.  
  


* * *

  
(you know one of these days you'll wake to Violet and that will be the end of flowers in the morning.)  
  


* * *

  
she tries not to look too hard at every girl she spots in a hoodie, or with long, dark hair and pale, sallow skin, or wearing a pink beanie.  
  
she tries not to look too hard at every person in view, but she's always on alert, always wondering what skeletons they're all hiding. she's certain now everyone has at least one. her fingers twitch, and she wants to just break them all open so their secrets come spilling out.  
  
she's something of a hypocrite. she knows it.  
  
but everywhere there are shadows and everywhere there are smiles and both of those things hide ugly truths. the sound of someone whistling is now an omen.  
  
hypocrisy is acceptable if it helps her survive.  
  


* * *

  
(you think you see her, on the corner across the street, watching you through the window of the cafe. gray hoodie on despite the heat of early September, sunglasses big and obscuring, and for a moment you are right in front of her, in a gas station - but no, that's not right. that was Justine. you're Kristy. she's dead. she's not on the corner across the street.)  
  


* * *

  
it's a new town, a new mark, a new victim to save. they keep hunting after all the wrong girls with all the wrong names.  
  
she thinks, through the dreamy haze she goes into when she stops them - when she kills them - that some part of her enjoys the horror in their eyes when they realize they found the real Kristy.  
  
(you aren't the shaking, terrified overachiever who cried, who spoke softly, who comforted, who offered an alternative. you set her alight with Violet.)  
  
she wonders if she'll wake to violets in the morning. she isn't sure why (she wants to).  
  


* * *

  
(you wake to Violet in the morning. bloody, dirty fingers on your throat. there's a knife under your pillow she hasn't taken, but you hate the taste of pennies; you're used to violets for breakfast.)  
  



End file.
